


Darkness on the Edge of Town

by afogocado



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, DFAB reader, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Unprotected Sex, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25213318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afogocado/pseuds/afogocado
Summary: There is a darkness on the edge of town that only those involved in underground activities and backdoor deals know about. While most men try to work and earn an honest living, it is not enough for some who ache for a level of notoriety and honor found only in illicit street racing, and respect earned from serving their fellow riders. One particular group, the Jedi Brotherhood, work to keep the peace between rivaling collectives. But when territory wars erupt, and violence becomes more visible and disruptive alongside more harsh business dealings, a select few of the Jedi are moved to action.Obi-Wan Kenobi, exhausted school-teacher by day, is reeling from the murder of the man he considered a father and is charged with caring for the man’s young adopted son, Anakin, who is riding the final waves of his tumultuous adolescence. You are a disillusioned child psychologist–-assigned to checking up on Anakin and his living situation--and find joy as a spectator of the underground circuits, and especially cheering on the mysterious Rider 212’s harrowing victories. 212's sole pleasure in life was racing his bike in the dead of night until he met you.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Obi-Wan Kenobi/You
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Darkness on the Edge of Town

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: [We can have a little smutty preview, as a treat]. In which Reader finally has an encounter with the mysterious Rider 212, whom she’s had a sexual attraction to for a very long time. And he’s noticed her, too. 
> 
> WARNING: 18! Explicit! Mature! Smut! This chapter totally start off with unprotected smutty sex in public. This story is very different from my other Obi-Wan/Reader fics that are known for being soft slow-burns. This piece is a little grittier.

\--

1

Sunday again, and so the races. This night’s location came via text from a burner phone; nobody knew who ran it, but they ran it reliably. River Road this time: a two-lane spot canopied by trees, with very few street lights. Spectators were advised to carpool to tonight’s run: there simply wouldn’t be enough room for cars to park all the way down the ‘track’ like there were for other runs. You would catch a Lyft to the park closest to the place, and walk the rest of the way. One of the things you disliked the most about going to the races was the fact that you had to be discreet: that you covered your face with a balaclava and usually wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. And one of the things you like the best about going to the races was the fact that you had to be discreet: it was an exciting thing that you did for yourself. As a professional who was well-known throughout your town, it was a necessity. You thought that it wouldn’t be very good for your reputation if you were seen at these illegal events where gambling, drugging, and violence occurred. But you couldn’t stay away from them. You’ve been coming since you were in college—you always loved motorcycles: their sounds, their swiftness, the riders pelting by like bullets at the speed of death.

The revving starts and you can fell it vibrating in your chest, and it’s so loud that it’s almost rattling your teeth, making your ears feel fuzzy. Rider 79—tonight’s challenger to the local favorite—is throttling too hard, grey smoke clouds around his rear tire, and spectators closer to him begin waving it away as it wafts over to where they’re standing in front of their parked cars, or perched on their car hoods. You usually stand by yourself—this is a place that you don’t really come to find friends for. But always nearby you were a group of women around your own age, and they always came to the races to see the same racer that you did: the mysterious Rider 212, your hometown hero.

You remember when he first came upon the circuit; he was one of the youngest riders coming from his particular collective, and you have supported him ever since. You’ve watched him grow in patience and skill, and into his collective’s prized rider: almost undefeatable. You were instantly attracted to his growth and his demure confidence. At this point, you were pretty sure you were attracted to _him,_ period, which was almost ludicrous because you’ve never seen his face. His body is always hidden so well by his leather jacket and tight, dark washed skinny jeans, scuffed boots, and gloves. And helmet, visor always down.

The group of girls your age often fought over who it was that got to stand at the starting line and drop the white flag to indicate the start of the race. You’d been offered a chance to do this once, but you had been too nervous, opting instead to watch from the sideline like always. He had watched you through his dark visor, and tilted his head slightly in curiosity when you declined the offer to start the race for them. The other girls would sometimes try to chat him up before the start of the races, when the engines were rumbling and their words were lost to the sounds, but their looks of blatant disappointment were not—no one was ever really known for bedding Rider 212. And you couldn’t even put yourself on any kind of pedestal: you wanted to bed him, too.

And you know he’s noticed you almost every race. And you weren’t here tonight just for the race.

“The length is two miles, boys.” The older, gray haired man says, pushing his flyaway locks from his face when the wind tousles it around. Not for the first time, you wonder what color hair Rider 212 has, or if he has any at all. And you flush with an excitement that thrums with the steady motoring sounds. “Our guy down there will call the winner.”

Spectators closest to the starting line typically didn’t get to catch the excitement of the end of the race, but enough people came out to these things (the gambling was too good to pass up, especially with a reliable body on the circuit like 212), and lined the length of the course to the end. Front-line spectators, like yourself, could hear the distant roars from the end of the line, and everyone in between would echo them in a strange call-and response. You would sometimes find yourself cheering for an outcome you weren’t sure these cheers signified.

When the races are called, people usually loiter around and look at the bikes, talk with the racers, check out the muscle cars that show up. You always want to look at not only Rider 212’s bike, but the challenger’s.

This is the first time he’s alone after a race, without his fan club of sorts. And you feel brave, so you walk up to him after pretending to look at 79’s bike for far too long while Rider 79 is chatting up some nearby onlookers, “Congratulations on your victory. Though I’m sure you expected it.”

And 212’s response should surprise you, but it doesn’t really. “I was beginning to think I’d never hear that from you. Thank you.”

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time,” you admit. “I come to every circuit.”

“I know. I’ve been waiting for you to come say hello. So…hello, there.”

You blush, glad that it’s dark and glad that his visor is dark, and glad that the bottom half of your face is covered. But you have a feeling that he could still tell somehow.

“Did you come with anyone tonight?”

Did he mean as in a date? Or friends? Or did he really want to know if you were by yourself? “No, I usually get dropped off at these.”

“I’ve never seen you perched on a car like the rest. I was just curious.”

There’s a heavy beat. And then he asks. “Do you need a ride home?”

You should say no; that you always manage to find a ride home, either from someone you recognized in the crowd and chatted with enough to know they were trustworthy, or by calling another Lyft.

  
He tries to make small talk while you deliberate your answer. “You know…I like that you hide yourself, too,” he says, almost a purr and you feel soaked almost immediately.

You’re not sure how to take this, but he seems to present it as a compliment, so you just smile and he doesn’t see it. But, like the blush, you have a feeling that he can tell. “You really wouldn’t mind giving me a ride?”

“No, not at all.” He sits, and waits for you to slide behind him, your front pressed into his back. You tell him where to take you when he asks.

You don’t know what to do with your hands—they’re resting on your knees—so he takes them in his gloved ones and pulls them to his front until you’re holding him loosely. Your blood is rushing everywhere and your chest is stuttering as though he’s already started the engine. He kick the stand up, and leans you both as he starts the engine and the sound startles you so that you grip him around the middle tighter, and press your front into his back tighter, and you wonder if he can feel your breasts on his back and you flush even warmer with the thought. You hear him laugh over the roar of the engine over your fright and you scowl at the back of his head and he warns you, “You’d better hold on.” So you do, and you press the side of your face into the leather of his jacket covering his shoulder, and you tremble against him, but not from the wind.

\--

He kills the engine at the usually dead corner of one of the main streets—one of the forgotten blocks with old business that don’t matter anymore. On the other side of this block is your neighborhood. It’s a short walk, and you don’t want him to know where you live, or potentially catch wind of who you are.

But he’s still concerned about dropping you here, “Are you sure this is where you want me to leave you?”

And you want to tell him: _no, this is where I want you to_ fuck _me._

Instead, all you can say is, “Yes, thanks again for the ride; let me know if you’re interested in a different kind of ride sometime.” You’re still behind him, talking into the side of his helmet, perhaps a little to nervous to dismount because you’re embarrassed to face him after saying something so bold. But the boldness doesn’t leave you, and you can’t believe that your hand reaches down and squeezes his thigh, almost touching his cock, fingertips so close that you can feel an extra strain in the taut denim.

When you get off the bike you stand in front of him and his hand shoots out and grabs the front of your thigh and squeezes hard, his thumb digging into your groin and the pressure makes you dizzy with lust, and you feel yourself grow wetter. You can’t see his eyes, but you know that he is looking right into yours.

You step away from him and he pushes himself off his bike, and you can see his cock straining against his tight jeans. Its thick outline thrills you—more than the harrowing ride—and you swallow hard. He moves close to you and you let him. He’s looking down at you and you move closer still, looking up at him and he presses his knee in between your legs and you press your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he wraps his around yours. You unzip his jacket all the way and grip the sides of it into each hand.

His hands find your hips, tightly, and he walks you backwards into the brick wall of the old Radio Shack, in the shadows of the street. Your fists tug at his jacket, pulling him after you, and he’s breathless in an endearing way, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

You bite back a scoff and say not _quite_ unkindly, “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

He lets go of your hips and you almost whine from the loss of pressure. “I really don’t,” he fumbles with some kind of latch at the bottom of his helmet, but you still his gloved hands with yours and demand,

“Leave it on.”

“Then leave yours on, too.” He’s referring to your balaclava—the way you always kept yourself covered and anonymous at these events.

He grabs your waist and spins you around and pushes you into the wall. You fall against it on your forearms, and he’s scratching at your lower back, under your shirt, fingertips curling around your leggings. “You knew you wanted to do this tonight. I’ve never seen you wear these before. So easy to just push aside.”

Your gasp is sharp, and a heat pools from behind your navel. Because you were right about him noticing you. And because he’s right about why you even approached him at all. And because he’s right about the leggings—you almost always wore jeans as tight as his. “ _Yes_.”

He yanks them down, along with your panties, and the evening chill almost shocks you. He pushes them down to your knees and you shimmy them down to your ankles in a desperate wrestle. You delight when you hear a button unsnap and a zip from behind. His left hand crashes somewhere above yours on the ragged brick, and the cool of his helmet’s front drops to the crook of your neck and you shiver from feeling it against your warming skin. He nudges your legs open a little wider with his clothed knee and you hiss at the feeling of his hot, leaking cockhead run a line up and down your aching slit, teasing you, knowing that he’s holding himself in a tight grip, easing himself into your warmth, panting shallowly. “Are you sure? You want this?” The pressure has you absolutely soaked, and oh god, yes this is what you’ve wanted. For too long. Just like this.

“I want it; I want you. Shut up and fuck me.”

And he pushes all the way in, and stills. You wish you could feel him groan against your neck: you can imagine his warm breath against your skin, and maybe a sloppy kiss, and then him biting down. Hard. You arch your back into him with this thought and a low grumbling thrums from his chest and he slams into you hard and you cry out in pain, and he sighs an apology, squeezing your shoulder tenderly. His hips still, one hand on yours, and you push back against him until the stretch is no longer a stinging ache, but the kind that was there before, and he begins pulling you into him with a quicker, desperate pace, pushing deep into you every time his hips make contact with your ass, hitting the spot deep inside that you’ve ached for him to reach for _far_ too long.

You’re trying to focus more on his ministrations and less on your forearms failing to support you and his pressure against the wall, and he is pushing too hard again and its good, but you hiss with pain again because he slips, and loses his balance, and you really scrape your arm against the brick and give a harsh sigh. He growls in frustration from his incoordination, and pulls your back up flush with his chest, and keeps going like he was before, loving the friction of his denim pounding into your bare legs.

You whine and he clamps his hand over your mouth, but the side of his finger presses into your lips, over the thin fabric of your balaclava, and you stretch your mouth against the covering to bite down on his finger. His groan is _loud_ , and he pulls your head back, resting it into the crook of his shoulder, throat exposed. You relinquish his finger and you feel the fabric of his glove close around the front of your throat, pressing into it with a firm pressure. His other hand trails down your front and he shudders when his fingers play in the hair covering your mound. Your cry is stifled and swallowed against his palm when his fingers slip into your folds and circle around your swollen clit.

“How long have you thought about this cock?” He’s still panting, and there’s also that endearing, breathless nervousness from earlier. “How fast can I make you come, baby girl?” Something about this word—never spoken to you before—drives you wild and you press back into him with a clumsy urgency.

He slows it down a little, not wanting to slip again, and you are heaving into his hand: your frantic breath has made his glove hot, and your face is flushed. He’s still dragging his other fingers over your clit and he admonishes you, “Shh, someone’s gonna hear us…or do you _want_ them to see me fuck you like this?”

Your muffled ‘yes’ against his glove sets him over the edge, and he pushes you away from his chest, bending you over for better access, driving into you with a frenetic pacing, slamming into that spot deep inside of you and your own fingers take over where his were, and he uses his free hand—slicked with your essence—to tug at your hair, and you begin clenching around him, and he bends over you to silent the desperate cries trying to escape from your throat and out your mouth. His cries are soft and he pulls out of you quickly, pressing himself against your lower back and grinding himself onto you there until you feel his warmth spilling onto your skin and something about that excites you in a new way, especially the sweet way he’s whispering his apology, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to there, I couldn’t stop.” But he stays pressed into you there, resting, and you feel his hardness subsiding, and your forearms are aching against this wall, and your post-orgasm clarity alerts you about where you decided to do this so you move from him and pull your leggings back up and he tucks himself back into his pants in a delicate way that makes your chest flush with a strange affection.

You don’t say anything to each other for a while. You think about the other girls, about the stories of how impossible it was to bed Rider 212. And want to keep this for yourself.

“Can I see you again?” He asks, awkwardly, hand on the back of his neck.

“Will you be at the next race?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then yes.”

His chuckle makes you smile, but he doesn’t see. “Will you come alone? So I can give you a ride?”

“Yes, of course.”

\--


End file.
